FEAR PERSONIFIED

for: open

location: ancient corinth ruins

What remained were ruins. It was funny how memory filled in the gaps, like the haze of tears on squinted eyes, light illusions built the crumbled columns again and restored the streets. Medea could see the pathways she would walk with her boys, and the courtyard she spent afternoons in, breathing in the cool air that came off the ocean. It was a bitter melancholy, anger pricking and overwhelming the pain when she thought of how it could have been her last memories— that stolen happiness in her first home. Now, with nowhere for the anger to go, she released her clenched hand, reddened half-moons bitten into the tender creases of her palm, and turned to make the long walk back to the modern city. It was a solitary pilgrimage— strangely quiet without the chatter of noisy tourists, and she stiffened when she saw she was no longer alone. “Watch your step,” she called, closing the gap between them, “nobody wants a twisted ankle from some loose cobblestone this early in the morning.”

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Of all the things that were monstrous, there were very few that were as fine as Medea. Her story was one that had been twisted like gnarled roots, throttling the very essence of her kindness— Phobetos had thought her dead, despite Hecate’s favour of her, the stories rarely allowed the beings that defied the heroes to have warm endings. They had taken to wandering the outskirts of the city, where the Corinth that was had not yet melded into the Corinth that is, crumbled remains of the past made for a casual walk, and the oneiroi wove through the place, finding her there. Her voice had not changed, that slow gravitas and her serious dark eyes, it prompted a smile to curve upon their mouth. “A twisted ankle is hardly likely to slow me down,” the volleyed back, holding a hand out for hers— palm up, a boon. “Welcome Medea,” old friend, “Was Elysium no longer to your liking?”

     Freya was more than aware of the way the spirit let their eyes wander over her figure. It was nothing unusual for her, she had been watched like that many times before. There had been a time when it made her nervous, now it simply made her proud, or it didn’t matter to her. Right now it was more pride and amusement than anything else. Her hand rested against her hip before the other gestured out towards the ocean. “I figured your kind gets bored of such ideas quite quickly.” It was admirable that they had kept their word. Once they undressed, Freya returned the gesture of letting her eyes take in their body – they had chosen a good physique, but she figured anyone with the possibility to choose their face would do that. “You know, I wonder whether this should count at all, considering the cold does not affect you like it would others,” she stated as she also started her trail into the water. Once she was deep enough she dove into it, pushing her hair away from her face when she broke back through the surface. “But considering I don’t have to be here on my own, it’s a win win for me.”

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Phobetos offered a wry smile in return. “My kind is often fleeting with their interest, that is true.” They waded in the cold water, enjoying the bite of the icy temperature against their limbs. It didn’t hurt, nor would it stop them up and freeze them, and they continued their conversational tone. “I am old enough to see when these things are worthwhile, even if it is just a swim in the lake.” Rather, they desired for the rift’s favour, to be someone that the Valkyrie saw fondly— and if this was the price for such affection, they would gladly spend as long as she wished submerged under water. It wasn’t often that they wore so few clothes in public, but just one’s prying eyes didn’t feel too dangerous— their talisman sat under the skin, and the ridges of it were raised like scars on their chest, almost inconceivable. “If it doesn’t count, think of another challenge for me to rise to.” They were bold, and their head canted, watching as she blinked water droplets from the tips of her dark lashes. “But I am glad enough to simply provide you with company.”

The idea of having a family with Phobetos is a pleasant one, one that causes Leyha to smile, and so she bookmarks it for later. In her human life, it is all she could have wanted, and perhaps that contributes to the fantasy of what it could be today, if she thought herself capable of loving another child so much. “I trust in you,” she says, tucking her head against their chest. It is never Phobetos she doubts, just in the intentions of others. This is a greedy, cruel world, and while Leyha finds such things work well for her much of the time, she would also sooner kill than see any of it befall the oneiroi. “But I will remember her name all the same.” And should she ever even attempt treachery against Phobetos, then the manticore will make sure she lives long enough to regret it, until this Maven begs for the release of death. Leyha pulls back in order to look upon their face, curiosity shining in her eyes as her head tilts slightly. “The original Valkyrie?” Evidently there are many others, but only one stands above the rest, beautiful and strong and magnificent. “We’ve met, yes.”

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And they would put their life in her hands, should it be what she ask for. What was love, they had read once, but trusting someone to be your own undoing? Freyr had loved Surtr enough to give him the blade that would carve his own heart out, and Phobetos would press their talisman into Leyha’s palm, to let it burn the skin there while knowing that she would not destroy it. “And I, you.” They leaned down to press a kiss to her temple, where warmth bloomed from her skin, and they laughed against it. “Then I do not envy the creature that dare intend us harm, there are few on this earth that would challenge you and come away unscathed.” She was beautiful and wicked, someone who held hunger and cruelty in the same space that she bore loyalty. Phobetos wondered if this was an intrusion upon that vein of loyalty, it the line of questions stopped at the flow of blood there, but curiosity was more important. “What do you think of her?” Fingers toyed with a lock of dark, shiny hair. “She is beautiful, and powerful. It is interesting to me.”

August is new to the supernatural world, becoming a wolf was an isolated event in her life that made her take to the woods in an attempt to understand shifting. She didn’t gain control but she had let her wolf roam free, and it dispelled the caginess of her heart. When this being steps through the door, there is an air of archaic magic and wicked strangeness that throws the wolf off-guard. She blinks in response to their grumpy form, not expecting such frustration with a stranger. “Thanks for finding the light.” Adjusting to the old bulbs took a second but her hazel hues were able to see the book titles more clearer. “Sounds like more of an issue to take up with them not me. Think they got married and fled this city, I own this bookstore now.”

.

Phobetos was irate, looking around the room. “Where’s Safi—“ the werewolf confirmed what it was that they had thought and they let out a breath. Their relationship with the genasi had been one of extreme convenience and this now was incredibly inconvenient. Finding their own artifacts was a pain, though not impossible, as was finding others in the city with the same set of skills. They had no need for the books that filled the room. “And the other staff, where are they?” Perhaps that would lead the oneiroi to more answers, “The previous owner, she was holding something of mine. I wonder if she had left it here for me.” A hat, a curio that they had admired, now was likely lost to a flighty genasi’s disappearance.

They could agree to disagree, mortals were tiresome and a waste of the air that they breathed. “Everything dies,” Aster shrugged, a torch to his tree would end him just as surely as an iron blade through the heart would quickly and quietly snuff out the life of the oneiroi in front of him. “save for the divine.” Gods, Titans, primordial entities, personifications that would live on forever. Even if they were vanquished they could never truly be gone, his father was the very heavens, and though he was weakened he existed - somewhere. “Something like that,” Aster sighed as he scratched at the back of his head, truthfully he and Paris hadn’t spoken of it. He wasn’t good at things like that. “I will speak to him, but I should take my leave. I have been too long in this place.”

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“I’ve heard whispers that there are even those in the city that would see the gods die,” Phobetos noted, wondering what it was that the dryad thought of blasphemy. Their own creator was a god, Nyx— and they saw her as everything warm and light and beautiful: this would not so easily be taken away, not when kindness had come to them directly from her hands. “Perhaps a war is brewing. You’ve just awoken, but surely you do not forget how it is to fight in a war.” The oneiroi would stay out of such things, they had always existed on the outlines, watching and surveying: learning from a distance. Their chin dipped in a nod, and they gestured towards the door. “Leave the house to me, but it will be a favour that I intend to one day collect upon.”

     “Everyone loves someone who pays them what I pay them.” Peirasmós wasn’t holding back when it came to salaries. It also helped that they could influence the dreams of anyone around them. Planting a seed for loving them was almost too easy. “Friends?” They frowned, looking at Phobetos as if trying to figure out what that word meant. The truth was, Raz didn’t really do friends. Mahendra and the other oneiroi were their family, and they didn’t really need anyone else. “I guess anyone who refuses to be friends with us is very stupid,” they agreed with a small smile taking back over their lips. “As long as the end result is what we want, I’m good.”

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Phobetos didn’t doubt the other oneiroi’s words, and nodded sagely. They didn’t have the same experience when it came to staffing— their pool of employees included Leyha and a human of whom looked grizzled and old enough to be an excellent candidate for fortune telling. Half of the believability of the experience laid in appearances, they understood aesthetics well enough. “Friends,” the older of the two echoed, before pairing off a smile. “I enjoy having friends, it separates who is worth expending effort for from those who are not.”

He doesn’t know what’s worse, the fact his father has essentially melted into his chair before his eyes or the relief he feels upon hearing his voice go from slurred to gargled. It doesn’t matter if it peeters off into nothingness, he knew the spiel, knew that this version of his father was using his dying breath to call him useless. And then he’s silent, he sits waxy and the smell of smoke is a welcomed distraction. He looks around the room for the source of the smoke only to find trails of fire, so clear and straight that they could have been drawn with gasoline.

Following it with his eyes, the trail led to the back door of the cabin and Emory’s gut hasn’t sat right since the forest had darkened. It wasn’t real, it wasn’t real and none of it could hurt him. Holding his breath, he followed the path illuminated on the wooden floorboards and hesitantly opened the door the rest of the way.

He pauses, looking into the dark night lit up only by the moon, to the flames slowly spreading across the surface of the cabin floor. And then he stepped through the door with a cough, his flannel shirt sleeve covering his mouth.

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Phobetos watched, an architect of this particular design, pleased with their machinations as smoke stung at eyes that were closed in life but open in this dreamscape— they filled a nose with smoke, made it oppressive and hot, allowing the cool air of evening to feel like a shock of ice water. Cold, too cold, the spirit weaved invisibly; darkening the sky and blotting out the stars, leaving only the moon and its fullness to cast blue light over the forest.

Leyha considers it for a moment, the idea of being a mother once again. She thinks of it fondly, some of the happiest memories of her life had been with her son. Watching Nikomedes grow into the fine young man he became, knowing it was her guiding hand that led him there. He was just hers, and no one else’s, not her former husband nor even Phobetos. Though she would not have minded if the spirit had stepped into a more parental figure, it was not the way things went. “It would not be the same,” she decides, shaking her head lightly. “There are none who could ever hope to match him within my heart.” No, Nikomedes had been special, her own flesh and blood, she’d risked everything for him. Leyha does not think she could ever possibly love another so much. None other that Phobetos, but that love is entirely different. It is all consuming, sunk deep into her very core. There is no future for her without them, and that is the simple truth of the matter. “I only worry for your safety, aşkım.” Genasi are greedy creatures, it is in their very nature, how they obtained such power. She will not risk losing the oneiroi, to see them betrayed by one once again. “Would you tell me her name? If she attempts any harm against you, then her last moments will be of great agony.” And then she would present the genasi’s heart to Phobetos as offering, a show of her devotion. 

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The spirit knew all too well that there was no measures that they would be unwilling to go to in order to ensure her happiness— if it was a child that she wished, they would bring her one; and it would be the most beautiful child that Greece had to offer, and if it was her own son they would track down a genasi willing to pull his spirit from the heavens to put back into a body for her to care for once more. Phobetos reached for her hand, bringing it to their lips to press a kiss to her knuckles. “We can be a family,” they said before offering a smile. “I was young then, and heartsick. Now I am neither, she would not find me to be so easily manipulated.” The oneiroi had no secrets, not for Leyha, and they divulged the name easily. “Maven. I know little of her, other than that a vampire named Jamie sees himself as her caretaker.” They scoffed. “What can a vampire do for a genasi?” Still, they reached down to stroke the soft back of a passing stray. “I’ve befriended the Valkyrie,” they said idly, looking over at the manticore now with quiet interest. “Freya. Have you met?”

    Going for an ice swim at midnight with an oneiroi had not been on the list of things Freya desperately wanted to do in her life. But here she was, walking down the beach with a coat wrapped around her figure that was otherwise covered in a light blue swimsuit that would shine almost silver in the moonlight. She hadn’t expected them to really show up — she figured a spirit wouldn’t actually be interested in any of this. That it had just been a conversation they would quickly forget. But they were already waiting, and it caused a small smile to grow on her lips. “I didn’t think you would actually come.” Freya slipped out of her ankle boots and dropped the coat before moving forward to dip her toes into the cold water. “Are you ready to get in?”

.

Phobetos lifted a hand, carding back their dark hair as they canted their head, studying the way that the moonlight glinted off of her cheekbones, carving them out sharply— the Valkyrie was beautiful and she carried herself in a way that was regal: this was a woman that had seen the dawn of gods, who had carried the souls of those of old to Valhalla, and now walked amongst them. They were old, but they lacked what she had— it was with adoration that they viewed her, carrying their dark eyes down the length of her figure. “You opened the box of possibility,” they said with a quirked smile, “And I came.” Their own jacket was shed, finding a pile on the grass where their shoes and pants then followed, leaving the oneiroi half-naked and wading into the cool water. “I told you, the cold is no difficult feat for a spirit.”

“Believe me, I don’t intend to.” It’s a slight admonishment, but one Maven can’t say is undeserved. The lack of barrier in her head made it possible for Viraj to get the information about Phobetos in the first place, putting them at risk. She’s been on the other side, been the one using compulsion before, perhaps it was the cruel hand of irony that it be used against her in such a way, the moment it was possible again. But she has no intentions of letting it happen again, by any vampire. What is this new power good for, if it cannot protect her? “I can’t say.” Much as she hates the fact. If there’s someone she thinks capable of handling anything Viraj could throw at them, she would say it would be the oneiroi. Her venture into attempting to look into the spirits had been not particularly fruitful, most of it vague and unconfirming. What he could pull is that they’re spirits of dreams, once sent by the gods as messengers to the world. But clearly, that is far from all they’re capable of. “But he’s one of Hektor’s progenies, and verifiably insane. He killed an entire apartment building of people, just to prove a point.” She eyes the spirit, wondering if this is her chance to get around the compulsion. “Maybe you should talk to Jamie about it.” He can give them a name. 

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Phobetos looked at Maven with curiosity, realizing after a moment that it was compulsion that she meant. They shook their head, wishing fervently that they had the ability to reverse the effects of it— to reach out like a fury did to mend broken memories. “Whoever it is,” the spirit said with confidence, “A vampire is of little concern to me, or mine. We are not so easily harmed.” They pressed their lips together, intrigued more than horrified by the actions of this progeny of Hektor’s— he had no problem spilling blood, and throwing tantrums it seemed. The prompt was a clue, but they shook their head. “I don’t trust Jamie,” they said with a shrug. “The Scotsman has no reason to be loyal, I don’t think he meant it when he said that we should be friends. A friend of a friend is not enough. I will handle it on my own.” A rabid vampire would not find their shop, or their home, or Leyha— though they had an inkling that the manticore would quickly dispatch of any malignant presence sent her way. The spirit looked more intently at Maven. “Will you be safe?”

    “I wouldn’t keep them caged. They’d be employees. I pay them for it, and they love me. I already have my own chefs and drivers, why not someone on a boat to get me everything I want?” Raz shrugged their shoulders, as they did not care much about the feelings of anyone else. The world had used their good nature against them, and now they were not opposed to doing the same. Their hand found Phobetos’, and they drank this information up like they were drying out and finally drinking water. “Then what are we waiting for? This city should be filled with our siblings.”

.

“Are you sure they love you?” Phobetos leaned forward now, intrigued. “Can someone truly love someone that they serve?” They tapped at a lower lip, considering the query that they had posed for something hypothetical, a sort of puzzle to put together. Human behaviour fascinated them, affection in particular, it was an interesting and unquantifiable subject. They gave Raz’s hand a squeeze, drawing them close with fondness. “I aim to make friends with him first. He is more likely to listen to demands when surrounded by friends, no?” Phobetos gestured. “But that’s easy enough to do. You just ask the question and wait for one to say yes. Who could refuse friendship with us?”

“They die quickly enough, hardly enough time to get overly attached.” How long did humans live anyways, two-hundred years? Three. That was nothing. A short blink of existence and then they were gone. Some were remembered, fondly or otherwise, but Aster did not get attached so easily. “I sired children many times over, it wasn’t so interesting.” The dryad shrugged, not by any choice of his own. “My brothers and sisters and I were charged with raising the boy Zeus when he was newly born, after Rhea had deceived my brother Cronus.” It would be the Titanomachy that ultimately sealed his fate. “She came to us then as a mother, desperate to save her children and we did as we were charged. Raised him on ambrosia and nectar, trained him to fight. And in the end his uprising doomed my kind.” Aster didn’t have a father’s mercy, he regretted not smothering the boy God in his crib when he had the chance. “His name is Paris,” Aster offered, “the same man who fought at Troy.” 

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“No, but they’re fascinating in the time that they’re here.” Phobetos enjoyed the idea of impermanence, how it made things more pressing— there was an urgency to being someone that would fade, or could be stolen from the world so easily. To be present one day and gone the next was decided by something as simple as the sharp touch of a blade, a fear that they simply had never held. “Typical man,” the spirit said with a wry smile. “I wish to know of mothering.” They were uninterested in the siring of children, they understood what was required for something so banal, but they tapped at their lower lip. “You raised a god,” the oneiroi noted, fascinated. “And the god in turn was responsible for your ruination. Nature versus nurture?” Phobetos meant nothing by the ribbing, and instead they tapped manicured nails against the glass of the crystal ball, clearing the fog that had collected in it. “Another from those days,” they noted, “A beautiful man, if I remember correctly.” Memories swirled like the fog, and they looked up. “Perhaps he knows my partner.” That was enough for Phobetos to be concerned enough to take care over him. “If he suffers from sleeplessness, have him come here, to see me.”